Weekend with Déduška
by coeurgryffondor
Summary: The kids are all different, growing too quickly before his eyes and moving out into the world. So Vanya spends what time he can, a weekend here, a weekend there, to get to know his grandkiddies. / From "But Let it Go, And You Learn" arc.
1. Martie

**Weekend with Déduška**

1. Martie

"Maman, non, j'ai déjà dit- ugh! Maman, je ne suis pas idiot!" Vanya cannot help but laugh, watching his grandson argue with the nation's daughter on the phone. They still have some time before they have to get going from the airport, and where they're heading there's no phone service. On the one hand he can understand Anya's concern. On the other hand she's kind of ridiculous, just like her own mother.

"Women!" Martie yells in Russian, hanging up the phone and turning it off.

"You argued," Vanya starts as the man throws himself into the seat beside him, "in Russian while in France, and in French while in Russia?"

Martie eyes him with those blue eyes from his father, eyes that are all German. In some ways Martie is the one who looks least like a Braginski, but that look of pure non-amusement is all Erzsi and Anya, a look Vanya knows all too well. "Don't judge me," the young man states flatly, slouching in the chair, hands shoved into his pockets.

"Don't worry Mart," Vanya chuckles, "soon we'll have no phone service."

"God bless remote Siberia," Martie says, nodding his head, eyes unfocused.

* * *

It takes hours and several forms of transportation before the pick-up truck pulls up in front of the small cabin. Looking at his phone Vanya can see he's lost service, did several hours ago; with one last look at the picture of Erzsi and Anya from his daughter's birthday he has set as his background, Vanya powers down the phone.

"Remind me again," Martie says once they step out into the cold. It's warmer than it was in the dead of winter, but it's still Siberia, still further north than most people can handle, the furthest away from civilization you can still go in the modern world. "You got this cabin on which banishment to Siberia?"

Vanya laughs and sighs inwardly at the same time as they load up their backs with their things; no need to make two trips when the women aren't here insisting they'll hurt themselves carrying everything in one go. "The one where the tsar didn't want to send me away but knew he had to."

"And how many times were you banished?" Martie asks, taking the keys to unlock the door.

"Seven." Vanya pats the wall before entering, closing the door behind him.

It's not a big cabin, nor a fancy one, though he has given it some modern updates. It only ever gets used on odd weekends like this, where Vanya needs to escape the world and just be, truly and utterly alone. Or when Erzsi gets so fed up that it's like watching her soul be consumed and Vanya could never let that happen to the one he loves more than anyone else, could never let the one who saved him have a heart that grows even the smallest amount black. Or when Martie's home and his mother's mollycoddling him despite the years he's spent in military training. Martie can appreciate it, Siberia, the cabin, can appreciate it the way Vanya can.

In some ways Martie is the greatest Braginski of the four grandchildren.

* * *

He watches his grandson chop the wood, stopping him every once and a while to correct his strikes. Martie, exasperated, tells Vanya to give it a go then.

Raising the axe up high over his head, the Russian breathes in deeply, his eyes closing for a moment, before his body tenses and all effort is focused in that singular point on the log. Every muscle in his body works in unison as he swings the axe over a shoulder, his large chest turning, his strong legs keeping him rooted, his fast arms delivering the final blow without mercy in a display of power only possible by the largest nation that ever was.

The log splits cleanly in half.

Martie claps before asking jokingly, "Who's face were you picturing on that one Déduška?"

He lets the axe stay in the post, leaning on it and breathing deeply. Violet eyes sweep over the landscape before him: as barren as ever, devoid of human contact, frozen through. What he loves most about Siberia is that it reminds Vanya of himself, the fear it inspires, the beauty it truly holds.

The loneliness.

"Déduška?"

"Yeah Martie?"

"How often do you think about death?"

Vanya lets his eyebrows rise as he turns his head to look over his shoulder at the boy. Martin, at twenty, is not nearly as tall as his grandfather but is damn close, taller than his father by several centimeters. And he stands taller from the discipline the military put in him, the pride he carries himself with. On the off days where he's home, the days where his mother doesn't have to tick off days on a calendar counting down his return, Martin's self-control still shows through from dealings with his sisters to the respect he shows to his parents.

Where it breaks down is with his younger brother, when Martie's wearing his skinny jeans and large cardigans, a scarf wrapped loosely around his neck as he colors with the eight-year-old. Because he's still just the little boy Vanya first held in the hospital so many years ago, who took piano lessons for twelve years, who got in fights at age nine defending his sisters' honor. The teenager who broke his mother's heart when he said he wanted to go into the military, the one who spoke with Vanya and Erzsi and Gil and Francis about serving his country and protecting the people he loves. They had understood him, because he understands them. He understands that desire they have as countries.

"Sometimes," his grandfather finally says, standing to shift his weight. "Why do you ask Mart?"

His hair is light; not silver like Vanya's and Anya's, but blond tinted an almost-caramel from his father. It blows in the wind as he asks, quite simply, "If you are no longer Russia, are you no longer immortal?"

"I'm still Russia," Vanya says definitely, "they cannot take that from me. I may not work for them, I may no longer have duties, but I am Russia. That I have become… rebellious, let's say," and both men chuckle, "is the Russian collective swelling up in me. Though, that I have a tendency towards being rebellious is probably more from me being a stubborn one than anything else."

"Is that why they fired you?" Martie asks. "Because you're a troublemaker for them?"

"Yes and no," Vanya muses aloud. He had been contemplating the question himself, and having someone to bounce the ideas off of, someone who wouldn't react like Erzsi but understood more than Anya, is a nice way to work through the thoughts. "I think they don't like that I represent the opposition to their government, but it's probably my record too. There had been several personal missteps I made during the reign of the tsar-"

"Siberia?" Martie interrupts.

"Da. But those were short banishments and I understood the punishment, it was equal to what any other Russian would have been given. And then the revolution came and-" Vanya laughs. "I'm pretty sure there's an essay in my file about how I am a bad Soviet, a bad communist, how I stuck to the tsar and what would that mean going forward."

"Who wrote that?"

Vanya snorts. "Lenin, I imagine. Maybe Stalin."

"Were you there? When the tsar's family-"

"No." That one he cuts off because it hurts, and though Vanya loves how Martie asks him questions, it's still after all this time too painful to talk about to talk about that day. "They told me I would be, but in the end I think they knew I would cause them trouble. I loved those girls," he admits.

"Nagyi'd said you did."

"Hmm."

There's a moment of silence before Martie asks the question no one's asked but they all know the answer to. "That's why Mama's named Anastasia?"

Vanya doesn't respond.

* * *

As they sit at their holes in the ice, fishing rods in hand, Vanya asks, "How's the army treating you?"

"Good," Martie chuckles, "though Mama would say something different."

Taking in the boy, Vanya smiles. He's crouched over the same way his mother does when she comes to Russia in the winter: forward enough to show she's uncomfortable, but still relaxed because the cold is a part of her bones, a part of being Russian. "That doesn't surprise me in the least Mart."

"Nagyi said," and Martie looks at his grandfather with those blue eyes again, "it was because of Afghanistan?"

Oh right, Vanya thinks; he'd forgotten that that had been the direct cause of sending his daughter to the West. "That was a bad one," he sighs.

"Aren't all wars?" Martie quips.

Several minutes of silence pass, a fish coming up to bite but then swimming away. "It's not that your mother's a pacifist," Vanya finally says. "Maybe it's my fault, in the end. I'd tried to protect her but once the war broke out- I couldn't. Erzsi and I'd decided we'd tell your mother the whole truth after her 16th birthday, but we hadn't been expecting a war at the same time. And your mother, her mind's too quick like her own mother's, she immediately started asking about the revolution in Russia and the two world wars and the revolution in Hungary and every military conflict I'd like to forget about."

Martie nods, thinking quietly, before asking, "What did she say? When she found out… why Nagyi and the others were living with you in Russia?"

Closing his eyes he can still see that day, his daughter fidgeting with her hands in her lap, her eyes cast down. Erzsi had sat beside him, both supportive of him and defiant; he'd forgotten the magnitude of her anger, knew that that hatred was still there but had thought maybe he'd righted some wrong that he hadn't. And when his little, beautiful Anya had glanced at them with those emerald eyes, she'd looked right at her mother and asked-

"So are you a prisoner of Papa's?"

Without missing a beat Martie adds, "And what did Nagyi tell her?"

That had been a heartbreaking moment on par with hearing how the tsar's family had been murdered. Erzsi had always told him he'd have to answer for this one day, for the sins committed against others; she'd been so angry in those days, that tension always bubbling just under the surface. He had begged her to explain, to make Anya see, because they were both prisoners and Erzsi alone understood that about Vanya, the vulnerable position he was in, because of her. She'd told him she didn't want Anya to resent her father the way Erzsi still resented Roderich Edelstein.

But all Erzsi had done in that moment was nod and say, "Yes," Vanya echoing the tone as it rings through his mind.

His grandson shifts, a bit uncomfortable. "I know," he starts, "that it's difficult for our family, being in the army. But I have to protect them, I have to know nothing bad will come of them. Mama said you understood though she didn't like it, and I know it's hard," and Vanya turns his head at that. He's never seen Martie so swept up in those feelings that were driving him forward, the ones that had caused him at age eighteen to enlist. "But someone has to Déduška," he finally says, "and I wear that uniform proudly for my mother."

A hand falls upon his grandson's shoulder, squeezing it, before Vanya puts down his fishing rod and hugs the boy tightly. "I know Mart, I know."

* * *

The last time Vanya'd come out hunting had been with Putin several years back; that had been something else. Yet with Martie it's still a contest of who's the bigger man: Vanya has years of experience on his side, but Martie's younger, bolder, and a sharp-shooter. In the end he relents because Martie reminds him of Timo, who Vanya could just never quite one-up when they'd go out hunting. The Finn had been the best marksman he'd ever come across, something he was distinctively reminded of during the invasion of Finland when he had his hat shot off his head. Purple eyes had met purple eyes across the battlefield; Timo'd let him get away that day, the same way Vanya'd let him get away the day the revolutionaries came for him.

He realizes he kind of misses Timo then, as Martie makes the first kill of the day. "Good job," Vanya congratulates automatically.

"Thanks," Martie says victoriously.

* * *

He knows perfectly well he shouldn't let his grandkids drink as much vodka as he does, but Vanya considers the clear liquid akin to water and so lets it flow as such in the cabin. "Tell me more about your girlfriend," Vanya says, pouring them out more alcohol. "I"m sure that broke a few hearts."

Martie laughs. "What'd the women tell you so far?"

"Your mother said her family's mainly Russian and that she's from London. Your sisters complained that she's hot." Martie laughs again.

"She is really hot Déduška, believe you me."

"Then let us drink to that!" Having downed their shots, the younger man pours them out new ones. "What's her name?"

"Basienka," he sighs, handing his grandfather his drink. "You'll like her Déduška, I know you will."

"Good girl? Orthodox?"

"Russian Orthodox, freaked her parents out when they found out I was raised Catholic."

"Good parents," Vanya snorts. "What's she look like?"

"She kind of reminds me," Martie starts, "of your younger sister, except that Basienka's got black hair and this love in her blue eyes." Closing his eyes the Russian imagines his Nataliya with long black hair, her eyes kind but just as dark and piercing. He pictures her smiling, the way she used to, with her pale skin and happy life. Nataliya used to dress to match Vanya's military uniform; his mind immediately imagines Basienka doing the same for Martie. "Déduška?"

"Still imagining," Vanya mutters.

"This isn't about Basienka."

Crooking an eyebrow, his eyes still closed, he silently urges the boy to go on, sipping his vodka before downing it.

"I was thinking…." Martie stops before clearing his throat and in a clear voice stating, "I was thinking of changing my name, back to Braginski."

His mind whirls at that, staring at the young man before him. Anya had waited to get married, waited so that her father could be there and walk her down the isle, so her parents could be with her. And his son-in-law's a good man, but he's not Russian. Vanya knows that had been Anya's main concern, just as it had been for his grandchildren when they started dating. For all that he would have liked a Russian son-in-law though, the one he's got is still pretty good.

Yet the children don't have Russian names, not legally at least: Martin, Véronique, Larissa, Aubert. They don't have Russian patronyms, don't have a Russian family name. They do have Russian pet names, but it's not the same, not that he'd wanted Anya to give them Russian names; she'd asked, when she was pregnant with Martie, but that hadn't been important to Vanya at the time. Give them any names and let them be healthy, that had been all that mattered.

"Déduška?"

"What would your change name to?" Vanya asks. Only the youngest one has any sort of Russian name, Ivan for his grandfather.

"Well-" Martie shifts awkwardly and Vanya thinks he must have been considering this for a while to finally broach the subject now. "If you were fine with it, Martin Ivanovich Braginski."

With his fingers Vanya writes the word on the cold window: Мартин Иванович Брагинский. "I could get used to that," the Russian nation finally says, turning his head to see the wave of relief crash over this grandson. He's always considered Martie to be like the son he never had: the one he can take out hunting, to the cabin in Siberia, drink vodka with while discussing politics or take to beauty contests Erzsi and Anya would call degrading and extravagant. Which they are, Vanya knows, but it's a thing for the two men to share, something his son-in-law would never have appreciated and that little Vanya is still too young for.

"You're- you're fine with that?" Martie's joy is growing by the moment.

"When would you do it?"

"After I'm done in the military," he says, because clearly he'd had this all worked out already. "I love France but I want to move to Moscow and so does Basienka, so when I'm done I'm going to change my name and then we'll get married and move there together."

"What'll you do in Moscow?"

"Teach, like Papa. French maybe, though I'll honestly teach whatever they'll pay me for."

"And what'll Basienka do?"

Martie shrugs. "Whatever the hell she wants; I intend to provide for the both of us."

"That's my boy," and Vanya pulls him into a headlock, messing up his grandson's hair until they're both howling with laughter.

"This was a good weekend Déduška," Martie finally says. "Sorry it has to end."

"Me too Mart," Vanya sighs, "me too."


	2. Nika

**Weekend with Déduška**

2. Nika

"Wow…." Nika's been standing with her head back, mouth open, for several minutes now taking it in. In that time she's only managed one word, over and over. "Wow…."

"Yeah," Vanya laughs, "your grandmother liked it too." He wraps an arm around her shoulder, pulling her into the magnificent Bolshoi. No reason to spend all day standing outside.

* * *

The ballet, for once, is not what's important: Nika is, Nika's smiles and Nika's laugh and Nika's tears and Nika's joy. Vanya doesn't mean to pick favorites but the truth is, he gets along best with Nika.

Throughout the ballet the Russian steals glances at his beautiful granddaughter, so like her mother and like himself. Her long silver-blonde hair, normally left down, is pulled up elegantly, her long bangs pinned to the side by a jeweled hair comb. In profile he notices her crooked nose more, his nose that she inherited and loves so much, a point of pride for his little Véronique Anastasiya. Her almost-purple eyes take in the performance, eyes that Vanya sees in the mirror when he takes himself in. She is nothing less than perfect to him, fragile in some ways but with a strong body and stronger heart.

They share a love for the ballet like no one else; Erzsi had liked to come but that was because she loved him he knows, and Anya loves the ballet but again it was from a love for her father. Nika loves the ballet for the same reason Vanya does, that indescribable, unnameable feeling it brings up in him as dancers glide across the stage in a seemingly effortless way all while making the greatest effort possible for just that right moment, to strike the position on the right note and move on from that perfection for the next chance to capture it.

When the curtains fall closed the young woman takes him in, tears still in her eyes, and smiles like only she can. "That was…" Her voice trails off, her eyes rising to the sky as she searches for the right word. Vanya kisses her nose because he understands, and standing they pull on their coats before exiting their box.

* * *

The Russian nation is better with chopsticks than most give him credit for, and while many of his still-friends don't like Chinese food the way he does, with Nika he can stop and appreciate a meal eaten with the wooden implements.

His companion mumbles something, the back of a hand covering her mouth as her other hand points at the soy sauce. Nika continues chewing her dumpling while her grandfather hands her the small bowl.

When they go out as a family it's hard, Vanya and Erzsi explaining over and over that though they are twenty-five they're still the parents of their grown daughter or the grandparents of their four grandchildren. Even now in his regular stop people eye the Braginskis eating quietly by the window, passersby in the street slowing to take them in. The problem with staying in one place for a long time has always been that the children Vanya would play with or give candy to soon grow old while he remains the same; they never say anything but the confusion is there, the unspoken question. Most days it's easier for Vanya to lie, to say his child or grandchild is a cousin. It's truth enough.

With Nika there are no lies because Nika doesn't care. Or as Anya's child of the West had put it, she couldn't give two shits. Why two? She had explained one night over sushi that too many people in the world cared about things that didn't matter to them: if people were straight or gay, what color their skin was, what religion they practiced, how old her grandparents were. What did those things matter to them? Too many people gave shits where they weren't necessary and so she had to not give two shits to try and compensate.

Vanya's still not quite sure he'd understood the logic in the argument, though he does appreciate the feeling behind it.

The young lady swallows, smiling. "I missed this," she coos excitedly. Nika's never cared what anyone thinks of her, something Vanya respects and wishes he was capable of too. There are no lies with Nika because she will still call him Déduška in public (when she's not pushing her luck trying to call her grandfather Vanya or worst, English-pronunciation of Ivan), still excitedly introduces her grandfather to confused classmates who will never fully understand.

"The food," the Russian starts, smiling, "or spending my money?"

"Ugh, Déduška, both of course!" Their laughter fills the small space as people on the street hurry home.

* * *

"It's nothing!" Vanya complains once more as he lays on one side of the couch, his granddaughter's legs over his.

"Still alcohol Déduška," the girl insists.

"If you want to degrade sacred and honorable alcohol by saying that that is alcoholic too…." It's an age-old argument because as much as Nika likes vodka she is not a man and so doesn't drink with Vanya the way her older brother does. Instead the Russian nation has to have his granddaughter's favorite, Smirnoff 83 flavored stupid grape and barely containing any alcohol, imported to Moscow.

What Vanya was drinking, that was real alcohol.

"This is why we have vodka wars," she comments as she takes another drink from the bottle. In one of her classes they had had to write extensively about a topic of interest that had world-wide influences. Most of her classmates had written about healthcare or corruption or hunger; Nika Simon had written about the fight over defining what is and isn't vodka. Somehow she'd won the highest score in class for the assignment, putting all others to shame.

Nika's drive to be a writer is both something Vanya wants to encourage and put an end to. Her Russian, while not necessarily perfect, is phenomenal especially when coupled with how many other languages she could write in to best express her ideas. What Nika has is a real grasp on languages, on what makes each one tick, each one unique. That comprehension allows her to switch quickly as she speaks, or to blur the lines and use several languages together in speech without anyone noticing (so long as they too spoke all the languages she used). And at the end of the day everyone knew she was the most Russian of the grandchildren in that she was the most like her grandfather, Russia.

But it's dangerous too, the French-raised woman with her ideals and liberal views. She's critical of the world and given a pen could bring down a lesser government. The Russian system, however, will not budge and Vanya is not willing to see if his granddaughter can be the one to pull it down.

She's foreign born and foreign raised and idealistic and Western and everything the government would use against a person. So Vanya toes the line between helping her achieve her goals and protecting her from the consequences, bringing her her girly malt beverage and tickets to the Bolshoi ballet.

Casually he remarks, "I never start wars," the two Braginskis laughing. They clink glasses.

* * *

His head hurts the next morning, Vanya laying on one side of the bed. Nika, who had drunk less, is already sitting on the other side of the bed since the apartment isn't big enough for a second bed but the loving grandfather doesn't have the heart to make his precious granddaughter sleep on the couch. "Whatareyoudoingsunflower?" he slurs, pulling the blanket over his head because there's no reason to pretend that he, the great Ivan Braginski, doesn't get hangovers.

"Talking to Sigge," Nika says while handing her grandfather a water bottle. "I'll make us breakfast in like two minutes."

Shifting Vanya props his head up on the mattress, watching his girl type furiously. "How much do you like this guy?" he asks in an attempt to be nonchalant.

She shrugs. "Might marry him," she says just as nonchalantly, completely missing how much her grandfather actually cared about this answer.

There's a pause before Vanya finally manages a, "Really?"

"Da."

The Russian takes a deep breath, rolling onto his back and trying to accept this. His little Nika, his one hope for Russian great-grandchildren, with her Russian studies and dreams of a Russian life, and here she was talking to her Swedish boyfriend. And yes, the boy speaks Russian and yes, he does Russian studies too, but it's just not the same.

"If you didn't want me to meet Swedes," she murmurs, "you shouldn't have taken me with you to Mr. Oxenstierna's office that summer."

"I am perfectly aware, sunflower," Vanya sighs, "of how I brought about my own doom." It had seemed so harmless at the time, taking her with him to Stockholm, letting her talk with Oxenstierna's young assistant while the nations discussed something privately. And then at the next world meeting, in London, where Martie and Nika had come up to visit their grandparents and Francis, Nika had snuck off to talk to the boy again. Then in Paris on her home turf-

"You really don't like him," Nika says, her eyes narrowed as she takes in her beloved grandfather who always agrees with her because he doesn't have the heart to ever say no. "I thought you'd get over that for me."

Vanya takes a deep breath, holding it while watching the young Parisian, before letting it out slowly. "It will take me a while," he says in soft Russian, "and I want you to be happy, but-"

"But nothing!" She snaps the laptop closed, standing quickly from the bed and leaving the room with her connection to the outside world, leaving her grandfather isolated in the room.

"Fuck." He rolls off the bed, trying to decide what to do next.

* * *

From the way she's sitting on the couch, her shoulders turned in towards the cushions he can tell she's still huffy. Vanya had had to make his own breakfast, the girl answering angrily that she wasn't hungry. When he'd finished eating alone he'd sat at the table, poking about on his iPad from Erzsi, emailing Matthew in response to a question about the upcoming meeting of Arctic Council nations. Oxenstierna would be there and so would his damned personal assistant.

"Nika?" the Russian nations starts cautiously.

"What?" she snaps, her eyes like slits over the back of the couch.

"Are you still coming with me to the Arctic meeting?"

"Oh, I dunno," she responses in sarcastic English, "will I be allowed to speak with the Swedes Ivan?"

He rolls his eyes, shaking his head. "You're too much like your grandmother sometimes."

The almost-purple slits still taking him in, Vanya meets them defiantly with an eyebrow raised, waiting for the witty retort, the droning English comment, something from Nika.

It never comes.

"Why didn't you marry Nagyi?" she asks. That takes the Russian by surprise.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," and she sits a little, placing the laptop on the ground, "why didn't you marry her? You two have been together, what, fifty-"

"Fifty-three."

"-fifty-three years, and she's still your girlfriend?" Vanya shrugs.

"You'd have to be a nation to understand, I think, or perhaps have been Soviet."

Nika sits a little taller at that. "How do you get along with the other former-Soviet countries?"

That makes the Russian laugh. "I have Erzsi," he says simply. Nika seems to have been expecting more.

"That's it?"

"It's complicated, Nika, you should know that." Sitting back Vanya rubs his hands up and down his thighs before adding, "She didn't want to marry me."

"Nagyi?" The grandfather nods. "Why?"

A thousand reasons, his mind says, the reasons she told him, the reasons his sister told him Erzsi had said, the reasons he fears.

And then there's why he never proposed, why he never asked even though he had bought the ring, giving it instead as a simple gift to Erzsi after Anya had been born. Years he had spent looking for a ring in the hopes that she might one day say yes, might one day be his, be Mrs. Braginski. And yet Vanya never asked.

"Veronika." He fills his lungs with air, closing his eyes, before speaking. "I love your grandmother more than anything or anyone I have ever loved. She is beautiful and perfect and I could never live a day without her. But her and I both know that if it hadn't been for the Soviet takeover of Hungary, we wouldn't have been together. And now it's by choice but then there wasn't choice, there was only fear and pain and hopelessness and a struggle for power, power that I alone held. We were never meant to be together." He opens his eyes slowly, taking in his hands in his lap, bare of a wedding ring. "We were never meant to be."

* * *

She speaks with her father in French on the phone, Vanya's pen scratching out corrections here and there to Nika's writings: some of it's spelling, some of it's grammar, most of it's just about style.

Her laugh fills the small apartment, her father's chuckle audible as well. His little Nika has always had the best sense of humor, always taken herself the least seriously. She dresses in bright colors and dances with abandon because she understands without having gone through it what it's like to be oppressed, to be suffocated as her grandparents were. She appreciates the freedom she has, having been born in France, having been raised without fear.

The boyfriend's father is a high-ranking Swedish politician; most of the interns nations take on are children of such mortals, Oxenstierna's assistant no exception. But Sigmund Byström's mother is a charitable woman, half-Russian, with interests in charities in former Soviet Republics. Vanya had actually met the woman's father, years ago, when he'd first founded his charity after everything collapsed, not that he's ever told the woman that.

"Ouais," Nika agrees to something, babbling on about her boyfriend and the charity event his mother was holding and meeting her father there to attend it together. "Oh?" The Russian's ears perk at that, pausing in his corrections. "No no, I understand," she mutters in Russian, sad eyes finding her grandfather who smiles to try and cheer her up. "I'll ask Déduška then, it's fine Papa. Hmm? Ouais, à bientôt." She hangs up.

"He can't make it?" Vanya asks quietly; miserably the girl nods.

"Mama literally just walked in with an invitation to something for the UN and he can't say no to that." Nika stares at the ground, pulling a face. "He was going to meet Sigge's parents for the first time too."

The nation shrugs. "He'll meet them eventually Nika, don't fret." Because this isn't like with his Anya whom Francis had told him always worried that her father would never approve of her boyfriend, that her parents would never meet him. One of the happiest days of his Russian life had been walking his daughter down the aisle at a wedding he'd all but given up hope of ever attending.

"Do you-" Nika starts hopefully, her voice faltering as she meets her grandfather's eyes. "Do you want to come? Meet them?"

Vanya smiles. "It would be my honor sunflower."

* * *

They pack her suitcase up quietly, singing Hungarian songs under their breath. Nika is chipper but Vanya doesn't hold it against her; she always is when she leaves because she's setting off on her next big adventure and that spirit of youth, of venturesomeness. There's never been a mountain too high or a place too far for his Nika Anastasiya to reach.

"Oh! I have to show you next time you visit," she interrupts, "there's this great new Chinese place down the road from us-"

"In Paris?"

"Ouais, it's fantastic, you're gonna like it Déduška."

"I can't wait," he smiles and she smiles too, kissing a cold cheek before going to get her charger.

Wherever Nika goes, whatever Nika does, Vanya knows three things:

She will excel far beyond expectations.

She will not remain quiet.

And she will change the world.

"When you next come," he calls out, feeling the need to reciprocate something, "we can go for Finnish food, I found a great little place I love."

"Oh!" Excitedly she packs away her laptop. "I can't wait," Nika mimics in his accent as he lifts the packed bags, Vanya leading the way out and down to the street where the car is waiting to take her to the airport.

"See you in Stockholm then?" he asks, rubbing her arms as a cold win blows.

"You're not gonna regret it!" Nika assures him. "And thanks for this weekend, they're still my favorite." With a hug, a kiss, and a wave she disappears into the car. The window rolls down as the driver tries to pull into traffic. "I love you!"

Vanya smiles. "I love you too sunflower." After watching the car pull away he goes back to his apartment.


	3. Lara

**Weekend with Déduška**

3. Lara

The wind blows flower petals past the Russian face as he makes his way inside the dormitory, students mulling about. A group of young women stop and watch him go, Vanya smiling to himself. When he gets to a hallway that gives him the option of going left or right he hesitates, unsure of which way it was again.

"Need help?" someone asks with a posh New England accent. Turning he finds it's one of the girls, the one who'd looked the most assertive; seems she was.

Remembering Nika and Lara's laughter that American women loved his Russian accent, Vanya asks in purposely poor English, "I seem to have lost my way to finding my cousin." A simple lie, the same as always.

"I see," the woman smirks, her friends laughing. "And what room is your... cousin, in?"

* * *

Having wasted too much time being dragged about by the girls, Vanya finally finds himself out Lara's room. With a deep breath he prepares to knock on the door before pausing, listening to the voices inside.

Lara laughs. "Oh shut up!" she chides in English with her Franco-Russian accent; only Anya and Nika had ever perfected speaking that language without it.

"No really," a young man chimes in, a boy in his precious granddaughter's room. More angrily than he had intended Vanya finally knocks on the door.

Last he had heard from Lara had been a call in the middle of the night while in Moscow, Erzsi asleep in his bed as Vanya had padded out to sit on the couch and calm her down. The girl had been more than upset, crying and hiccuping and sobbing that she couldn't do it, she was awful at chemistry and she was awful at English and why had he ever let her come to school in America? She wanted to come home, she wanted to go to school in Russia where she was the same as everybody else, not someone who stood out. She just wanted to be normal.

That's what draws Vanya to Lara, her desire to not be special in any way: Martie needs to protect, Nika to shine, but Lara likes to be behind the scenes. Sure he still gets calls before she goes out for reassurances that she's pretty, and he always gladly tells her just how beautiful she is, same as her grandmother: the green eyes, the straight nose, the dark hair that's not quite Erzsi but still lively. Maybe, he'd thought that night, that was why she didn't like the limelight, didn't want to have to put herself out there where someone could hurt her, could call her ugly or stupid or different. She's strong in many ways but still weak in other ones, vulnerable like Vanya and afraid to let the world see it.

So as he'd talked her down from that ledge, the girl apologizing on the phone for having disturbed her precious déduška, he'd decided he had to come out to see her for himself, to hold his youngest girl close and kiss her head.

It's the boy who opens the door, strong upper body but still thin with pale skin and dark hair. Surprised eyes take in the Russian nation before the boy says in Russian, "Lara, were you expecting company?"

"She was," Vanya replies and that really throws the boy for a loop.

"Déduška!" a scream sounds from the bed, Lara practically throwing herself on her grandfather, knocking the boy a bit but not noticing.

And neither does Vanya who lifts Lara up high, spinning her and kissing her face over and over like he used to when she'd run to him at airports or in hotels. "Oh I missed you my precious little sunflower," he coos into her hair and Lara giggles, kissing one of his cold cheeks.

* * *

The room is impeccably decorated, an entire wall just photographs: her parents, her siblings, her grandparents, her extended family of nations. Pinned to the desk's cork board is a recent picture of Nika with Vanya, Sigge, and Sigge's mother from the charity ball in Sweden.

Nearly everything is some shade of green, from the bright comforter on the bed to the dark rug on the floor bearing the name Dartmouth in big letters. Lara happily jumps onto the mattress, patting beside her for her grandfather to join her. Across the room most of the furniture is seemingly empty, books piled high on the bare mattress as the boy sits at the second desk covered in papers.

"Where's your roommate?" Vanya asks and Lara laughs.

"I've no idea," she assures him, "but it's fine. She was here the first day to tell me she would be spending most of her time with her boyfriend and so I could use her furniture as I want."

"Ah."

Green eyes shimmer brightly as she looks at her grandfather, smiling. Vanya smiles back stupidly before noticing the pictures on her bedside table: Lara with her parents at her high school graduation; Lara with Vanya and Erzsi before the Eiffel Tower; and Lara with the boy in a snow-filled New York City shot.

"Oh! I'm so stupid, sorry Dmitriy," Lara says in English, making the boy look up from his book and smile.

"You're not stupid," he corrects, "and it's fine. Hello Sir." Switching back to Russian and standing he holds out a hand for Vanya who shakes it. "Dmitriy Nikolayevich Utkin, a pleasure to meet you."

"Ivan Ivanovich Braginski." Lara giggles at the fake patronym.

"You're her-" Dmitriy gestures to Lara before seeming to recall something, turning to the picture wall to confirm his theory. "You're her grandfather." Suspiciously Vanya looks to his granddaughter who looks back sheepishly.

"Sorry."

"You trust this idiot?" Vanya asks in Hungarian which, judging by Dmitriy's expression, is not a language the American understands though the gesture to his person is heard loud and clear.

"He's my idiot I'll have you know, and I trust him very much."

* * *

When Vanya asks if there's anywhere special he should be taking his sunflower for dinner Dmitriy interrupts with, "I know where she'll want you to take her." And so somehow Vanya ends up being the third wheel tonight, though from the American's ever-emotional face, that one thinks he's the third wheel.

Good.

It's a cheap place, nothing like the one in Moscow he'd last been to with Nika, and the food is too overtly American and too little authentically Chinese, but the food is still good Vanya admits much to his granddaughter's pleasure.

"Dmitriy takes me here all the time," she informs the Russian nation who eyes the boy squirming across the table. "I love it."

"Do you now?" Cool eyes continue to take in the American, Lara oblivious.

"Yeah, you know, it's just, we, uh," Dmitriy stutters through before giving up and yelping. "You're granddaughter is very special."

"Da," Vanya nods, "I know." Lara slurps up a noodle.

* * *

Over ice-cream Lara goes on and on about how much she loves physics which stands in stark contrast to the anguish she seems to get from her chemistry courses. "I still think you should join me as a physics major," Dmitriy says.

"If anything I'd be an astronomy major," Lara comes back with.

"Space?" Vanya asks, interest piqued. He hadn't realized just how science-focused Lara's future plans were. "I can tell you stories tonight."

Dmitriy tries his luck, asking, "Tonight?" Lara nods, smiling wide and taking hold of Vanya's arm.

"Da, I'm going to spend the night with Déduška in the hotel."

"Cool," the American sighs and Vanya almost pities him.

Almost.

* * *

"Where were they hiding?" Lara asks after bouncing on the bed in her favorite pajamas thought lost after a trip to the Black Sea.

"In the guest room at Irunya's," Vanya comments absently, switching his phone on as he knees his way across the mattress to lay beside his granddaughter. "I'm going to call your nagyi, are you saying hi?"

"Yes please!" Patiently the girl lays quietly, her head on his shoulder. He wraps an arm around her.

The Hungarian is angry. "I know it's late," Vanya says pleasantly, "but I wanted to let you know Lara and I are safe in a way more personal than a text. Hmm? Yeah, she's here, hold on." He hands the phone off, eyes closing sleepily. When the phone comes back to him he sends Erzsi his love, promising he'll call her tomorrow at a more godly hour.

"Tell me stories now!" Lara pleads.

"Tired." A face above his indicates that in this particular moment, the girl doesn't care. "Stories, stories, alright." Vanya shifts, sitting and thinking back. One memory in particular makes him smile. "When they came and told me," the Russian starts and his companion's face immediately lights up like Anya's would when she was a child, "that we had finally landed a spacecraft on the moon, I had been cleaning with your grandmother. I remember the words though I could hardly believe them, that we'd done it. I remember running to Erzsi, spinning with her over and over, her laugh and her smile and her kiss…." He sighs. "That was our first kiss," he laughs to himself. It had been a good one too, the first of many good ones.

"Wow," Lara giggles, "so romantic Déduška." He chuckles.

"I guess it was." His smile is more to himself than for anyone else as he relives the moment, how he'd had to bend to cover the distance in their heights, how she'd tasted of tea, how she'd pressed so fully into him and how it had set the icy nation on fire. God he had waited so long for that, to feel her, to kiss her.

"Are all these space stories," his granddaughter interrupts, "actually going to be secretly about Nagyi?"

"Nyet!" Casting about he tries to remember a moment that wasn't his but was important nonetheless. "I can tell you one your mother might remember."

"No way!" Lara sits up immediately, as close to her grandfather as she could be without being on top of him. "Was it from the '60s? Was it-" She gasps and he nods, grinning.

"I'd had a special connection made, so we could watch the broadcast. It was late but I'd wanted little Anya to see it with her mother and I. She'd marched around the room yelling moon in Hungarian for at least ten minutes before the Americans landed on the moon." The Russian clearly remembers the headache his six-year-old's screams had given him, Erzsi feeding him chocolates as he'd held his girlfriend close.

"I'm sure you loved that," Lara adds teasingly.

"Oh yeah, your little brother has nothing on how rambunctious your mother had been." Vanya pulls a face that makes Lara laugh. "It had been amazing though, I will grant you that, watching the Americans do it. That had taken a lot of effort, to beat us, to get there."

"Were you upset?" He understands she means at losing the Space Race.

"A little," Vanya admits, "but it was fine. We had plenty of firsts and I was not that selfish anymore." Thanks to Erzsi, he thinks.

Lara moves to hide under one of his arms. "Can I- can I make a confession?"

"What is it?" He kisses her forehead.

"I think I want to change majors." She seems to give that statement more gravity than Vanya feels it's worth.

"So what?" the Russian asks. "Change your major, no one will stop you. I sent you here to be happy, not miserable, and it's my money paying for this education," he adds, "so you study whatever the hell you want my beautiful little sunflower."

"Mama said there's less to do with a degree in astronomy, that I'll find it harder to get a job for what I want to do with it."

"I'll get you a job," Vanya assures her. "You get the degree, I'll find you a nice job in Russia or the European Union or something in a space program." Immediately his mind starts to think, to search for connections he could use, Francis being the most obvious one though maybe he could reach out to Yao too….

The girl is quiet for a few minutes, seeming to contemplate all this, before smiling happily. "I'm going to change my major," Lara breathes, hardly believing her own words. Vanya kisses her forehead.

* * *

The next morning after breakfast Lara calls Dmitriy and together the two university students give him a tour of campus, pointing out buildings here and there and retelling stories they've so far created during their first year at Dartmouth. They talk about the Film Society and Outing Club, Lara assuring her grandfather that in addition to attending Catholic masses she goes to Orthodox services on holidays with Dmitriy. The boy does track and water polo, Lara playing cricket and badminton. They both play soccer, assuring Vanya that it's actually football and the Americans here aren't half bad at it either.

What the Russian enjoys most about the tour is how Lara smiles with Dmitriy, how easy her comments are to him. She's normally tense when not with her family and the idea of her coming out here to America by herself, while important, had still been risky. But to know she has a friend here who puts her at ease makes Vanya feel at ease too.

"Oh! Come on!" Lara suddenly yells, grabbing one of her grandfather's hands and dragging him towards something, Dmitriy following behind. Wherever they are, Vanya notices, Lara does stick out: the kids around them are wearing jeans and T-shirts, his little girl alone in a tight pencil skirt and fitted jacket, clothes straight out of the 1940s. Sometimes he forgets how like her father the girl is, just minus the tweed and pipe.

It's the college bookstore and that makes him laugh as they make their way to the sweatshirts, Lara seemingly trying to find something that's perfect for her grandfather. The Dartmouth green is such a contrast to the red Vanya for so long called his own, fingers feeling the cuff of the item; something in that feels right.

"Green your color?" Dmitriy asks from behind and the Russian wonders just how much Lara has told him.

"My partner's eyes are green, like my daughter's and Lara's." His voice is cool as Lara comes back with something in her hands.

"Tada! This one!" she says happily. "It's under-armour so it'll be warm, and it says the name and year of the school's founding-"

Vanya laughs at the 1789. "So old," he teases and the girl pulls a face.

"We can't all be as ancient as you are," she complains. Dmitriy forces a laugh.

Feeling the item Vanya smiles, taking it from Lara's hand to check the size. "Alright," he says, "what else?" At that the girl's face lights up.

"More?"

"More."

"Yes!" Because Nika wasn't the only one who could spend all the Russian's money like it was nothing.

* * *

In the end Vanya leaves with the green under-armour sweatshirt, a Big Green athletic shirt and sweatpants (his granddaughters had never approved of his mismatched workout clothes), and a scarf with matching beanie. For Lara he buys one of the teddy bears, her thin arms squeezing it as the group leaves the bookstore. "Shall we get lunch?" she asks as a phone starts ringing.

"Oh, that's me, hold on." Vanya fishes the phone from his pocket, expecting it to be Erzsi; instead it's Alfred. "Yes Satan?" the Russian answers, the same answer he's given the American for years; Lara smiles as Dmitriy shifts uncomfortably. "What? We'd had an agreement, I told him- Fine, fine, I'll come early. Yeah, I'll see you there. Hmm? Yeah but no McDonald's or I strangle you."

Lara smiles weakly as her grandfather puts the phone away. "I guess that means you have to leave us early today." He rolls his eyes.

"I'd much rather spend the day with you then banging my head against the wall with them, you know that sunflower."

"It's ok," Lara assures Vanya, hugging her grandfather tightly and kissing his cheek. "Dmitriy and I can find something to do."

"Homework?" the Russian-American offers in an almost-beg.

"I was thinking a K-pop party."

"Of course you were." There's a defeat in his voice Vanya is growing to enjoy.

"Bye Déduška," and Lara hugs him again, the Russian nation holding her head still to kiss it. He wants to remember this moment, her smell of grass and flowers, the happiness she'd been able to find in the United States of America, his promise that he will find her a place in this world.

"I love you," he whispers in Hungarian, Lara smiling wide, before shaking Dmitriy's hand and waving goodbye.

* * *

Outside a group of women stop as he makes his way back to the car. "How's your cousin?" one of them calls out.

"Good thank you," he calls back, "but I really have to get going to meet up with my boyfriend," he adds just to see their faces fall. Vanya swings the bag in his hands as he makes his way to the parking lot, laughing and feeling reassured that all was fine in Hanover, New Hampshire.

* * *

That night there's an email waiting for him:

"Changed my major, new advisor is fantastic. Papa says he's proud and Mama is going to hold you to that promise. Nagyi said she's going to strangle you for calling her in the morning but that she liked hearing my voice.

"xoxo, your sunflower"


	4. Aubert Vanya

**Weekend with Déduška**

4. Aubert Vanya

As he pushes the door open a little boy at the bottom of the stairs giggles. "Hello Vanya," the Russian nation says to his youngest grandson, locking the apartment door behind him. From the living room Anya bustles in, pausing only to kiss each of her father's cheeks before flying up the stairs.

"Mama is late," Aubert Ivan informs him, the boy following his grandfather. Vanya hangs his coat, pulling his suitcase into the living room; he'd bring it back to the guest room later. Aubert jumps onto the couch. "Are you hungry?"

"No," Vanya says, plopping down beside him and wrapping an arm around his small shoulders. "I ate on the plane. Are you hungry though?" Aubert shrugs. "Well if you get hungry let me know, I'll eat when you eat."

"Mama says dinner isn't to be taken before five-thirty."

"Is that so your papa can be home for it?" He nods. "Has Papa called since he left?" Raphael, Vanya knows, is lecturing in Switzerland this and next week. Unfortunately Anya was needed at the last minute to do some English-French-Hungarian translations out in Vienna; rarely were both parents gone at the same time but Vanya didn't mind coming up to watch the baby of the family. He was his baby after all.

"He said he'd bought me a gift!" Aubert seems delighted at the idea, Anya rushing down the stairs to take something from the kitchen table.

"I'm so sorry Papa," she sighs but Vanya just smiles.

"It's no problem Anya, I told you that. Do you need my help with anything?"

"Can I have you carry my suitcase down?" She's already walking to the stairs. "I've only left heels out and those won't do on the stairs."

"I've got it. Come on Vanya-baby, you going to help me?" Vanya, standing, leads the way as the boy follows.

"Yes Sir!" he says in his best military voice. That makes the Russian nation laugh.

* * *

The girls were in London with Francis, enjoying the warm weather. Martie was serving a tour with the French military, making his country proud and his grandfather prouder. And little Vanya, well, he had a whole week to spend with big Vanya instead of just a weekend. That was quite exciting.

They lay on their stomachs in front of the television, big Vanya watching the news and only vaguely paying attention to his picture, little Vanya intently coloring and only vaguely paying attention to the news.

"Déduška, what's вто́рник?"

"Tuesday."

"And возраже́ние?"

"That means protest."

"Who's Putin?"

"He's the president."

"Of Russia?"

"Da."

"Do you like him?"

"Eh," Vanya admits, "he has his moment; we go hunting."

"Like you do with Martie?"

"Da."

"When I'm old enough will you take me hunting?"

Rolling onto his side Vanya takes in the boy with his impeccably colored picture of the French countryside: eight shades of green, six shades of blue, three different browns; the people had been colored a flat, boring yellow. "If you want," he replies seriously. Aubert smiles at him before holding up his picture.

"I finished!" The box of crayons look dead.

* * *

He admires his grandson's picture on the fridge before putting the milk and butter away, sitting at the table while Aubert gets napkins and spoons. "Thank you Vanya," he says gratefully, the boy climbing into his seat and taking the piece of bread and butter offered.

"Lapsha?" he inquires, face over the bowl of noodles in soup.

"Does Mama make this for you?"

Aubert nods his head, adding, "And Nagyi too, though they always say yours is the best." Dutifully the boy starts in on the hot soup, Vanya pushing his spoon around the bowl for a piece of chicken and smiling to himself.

* * *

In the park they lean against a bench, taking in the sights: big Vanya the pretty ladies, little Vanya the pretty dogs. "I want a puppy," the boy finally announces.

"Big or little?"

"Big!"

Fingers come out to stroke the boy's cheek, watching him finish his ice-cream. "Do you know what kind?" Aubert shrugs.

"Did you ever have a dog Déduška?"

"Da, hunting dog when I was in Siberia. She was a good girl, fluffy, happy."

"What was here name?" the boy asks happily, scooting in further under his grandfather's arm on the back of the bench and resting his head on Vanya's chest.

"Hmm? Raisa." The Russian nation smiles in memory of the happy dog. She had been a beauty though the winters had not be kind enough to her. Poor girl.

Aubert's big purple eyes are wide, anticipatory, as they take in the nation who sighs, one hand ruffling the boy's hair.

"Alright, alright. I know Anya never will give in so I'll get another dog."

"Yay!" Arms around his shoulders hold him tight, Vanya laughing at the delight of his grandson.

* * *

For lunch they eat in a café near the Eiffel Tower, Vanya taking in the Seine River and wondering what adventures his Anya had had on it when she first lived her. "Can we get dessert Déduška?" Aubert asks, licking a finger of oil as he finishes up his fries and steak.

"Whatever you want sunflower," and the Russian finishes his glass of wine, ready for coffee and chocolate.

* * *

With dinner cooking on the stove Vanya pulls his grandson onto his lap, the program loading on Raphael's computer. "So excited!" The boys legs swing in anticipation, giggling as his grandfather kisses his head.

An arm comes around the boy, Vanya making the video call that is quickly picked up, Erzsi's image clear on the screen. "Hello boys," she coos.

"Nagyi, Nagyi! Guess what we did today?" Aubert immediately launches into his stories, one right after another, and Vanya smiles at him, his eyes coming up every once and a while to look at Erzsi grinning at Aubert too. Her eyes twinkle even on the screen, her face softening as she catches Vanya's gaze.

Silently she mouthes, "I love you," before Aubert finally lets her talk.

* * *

In the large public library Vanya pulls down books about his past, about days he struggles to remember, repressed and forbidden for so long. Thick tomes line the wall; his hands shake as he pulls down tales retelling the death of the Romanovs. He lines his arms until he can't carry anymore, making his way back to the table where one of the librarians is sitting, laughing at his grandson's story.

"There you go Monsieur," she says, standing. "Your son is very smart." Aubert smiles wide at that; he was the youngest human Vanya thinks they've ever told about the nations incarnate. He plays along with the game, his favorite one to share in because it's a secret and Aubert is good at keeping secrets.

"Thank you Miss." Vanya piles the books on the table, stacking them and removing his journal of notes from his bag.

"We found me a book!" Aubert informs him and the Russian smiles.

"Good. Read quietly while Déduška works, da?"

"Da!"

* * *

As he makes his notes, trying once more to create the most accurate timeline of the end of the Romanovs' lives that he can, Vanya's neck starts to pain him. Deciding it was time to take a break he leans back, sketching out his Alexei Nikolaevich as a boy about Aubert's age.

His grin is small, little Vanya reading a book backwards as he tells himself his own story. "And then he said, nah-uh, that's not what the soldiers eat so I won't eat it either."

Sometimes Vanya regrets the boy being named for him; he's not sure he's ever done anything worthy of that sort of honor.

Big, sweet eyes catch his. "Do you want to hear my story too?" Aubert asks. Settling in the nation nods, ready to listen.

* * *

They're up very early, Vanya carrying his grandson despite knowing he was too old for such things yet small at the same time, thin; he's always been so susceptible to illness. He grips the boy tighter because while modern medicine means it doesn't matter, that Aubert will live a full life, it still scares Vanya to think back on how illness has ravaged in the past.

He goes to lay the boy down on the couch but he won't let go, so Vanya carries him to get the phone, taking it to the couch where he sits with Aubert on his lap. Then they wait.

* * *

He doesn't know how long they've waited for, the clock having last read five-thirty in the morning. When Vanya looks at his watch it reads quarter-past-six.

Finally the phone rings.

"Déduška?" a voice on the other end asks in a quiet voice. He shakes the little boy in his arms to try and wake him as the voice continues. "Sorry Déduška, there was this thing-"

"It's ok Martie, I understand." It feels so good to hear that voice, to know that Martie is still safe somewhere. He's not in a war zone but at the same time it's still dangerous and Vanya appreciates that. "Your brother's here, though he might have gone back to sleep on me."

"Did not," Aubert moans. Martie laughs, the sound foreign as if he hasn't done so in a while.

"Hey Vanya-baby, how you doing?" The two brothers exchange simple words before Aubert hands the phone back, his head falling on Vanya's shoulder and eyes closing to go back to sleep.

"You doing ok?" Vanya asks, rocking the boy in his lap. He remembers rocking Vanya in the hospital while Anya gave birth; it never seizes to amaze him how quickly children grow.

"Yeah, it's not as bad as last time, mainly cuz I know what to expect."

"I hear ya."

"I'm sure this must seem like nothing to you," Martie laughs but Vanya doesn't, taking a deep breath.

"Believe me Martie, I still get just as worried as your mother and grandmother; I'm just better at hiding it."

"Hey, I've got a question."

"Da?"

"How's your timeline coming along?" He means the final days of the Romanovs.

"I got down another couple of hours I think, at the library. I'll have to check my journals back at home to make sure it all lines up."

"Da. Oh, I've got to go Déduška but it's been great talking to you and Vanya."

"You stay safe Martie. If you ever need anything you know you can get your message through to me." Francis had arranged it for Martie, to calm Anya's nerves. "I love you."

"Da," Martie laughs. "Da." He'll never say he loves them back on the phone. Well, except for his mother. "Till next time."

"Talk to you then."

* * *

The kitchen is calm as they eat crêpes with apples, Vanya peeling another one while Aubert eats happily, talking about what they should do today. So far they're going to the moon, swimming to the United States, and going back in time. They'd need more breakfast for all that, and maybe a packed lunch.

From the hall there's a shuffling sound, the front door opening as voices echo loudly in the small apartment. "Gah, why would you ever do that?"

"I know right? Boys, what idiots!"

"What idiots," Francis agrees, leading the way through the living room and into the kitchen, Nika and Lara following close behind. Vanya stands to shake hands with his fellow nation.

"Hi Déduška!"

"Hi Déduška!"

"Hello girls." He kisses each of their heads. "Would you guys like crêpes too?"

"Oh yes please," and Nika trails close behind, informing her grandfather in a wild mixture of French and Russian about what they'd done and seen in London. Lara, he sees over his shoulder, has sat at the kitchen table to listen to Aubert who's telling her in a mixture of French and Hungarian what he and their grandfather had done while they were gone. Francis just stands in the archway, leaning against the wall.

"Here, take these to the table." Nika does as she's told, joining her siblings in their discussion. "You're thinking something," Vanya whispers to Francis, leaning against the wall as well and taking in the sight. It makes his heart beat faster just thinking that this was his, this was his family. And they loved him.

"I'm thinking you're happy," and looking to Francis he finds the Frenchman watching him instead of the table. "And that makes me happy Ivan, to finally see you content. Satisfied."

"Sometimes I worry that you know me too well," the comment making Francis laugh.

"It's a good thing I like you then."

* * *

Midday they sit out on the small balcony, no room for chairs, as Francis makes something fancy and terribly French in the kitchen.

"Uncle Francis said he'd watch us so you could go home," Lara informs her grandfather as Aubert climbs from Vanya's lap to Nika's so that she'll play with his hair. "He watches us all the time and we've yet to starve, so I think you can trust us with him."

"But can he make good Russian food?" and the girls laugh.

"No one makes good Russian food like you do Déduška," Nika starts, "but that might be since he's not Russia, you are."

"That is an interesting argument," Vanya concedes. The roar of laughter from the balcony disturbs some of the Parisians walking by on the street below.

* * *

Francis and Vanya are the only ones left on the balcony: the girls are unpacking, Aubert taking a nap after having been woken so early.

"I will watch them," Francis murmurs, "if you want to head home. You don't have to stay."

"Believe me when I say," Vanya sighs, "I'd much rather stay here." Francis nods knowingly.

"How's Erzsi?"

"She's doing well. We're going to visit Feliciano next month, you should come."

"Perhaps," and light blue eyes sweep over the capital before them.

"If you want me to go, leave France," Vanya starts but his friend is already shaking his head.

"Non, non, non, you should never feel as if you have to leave my dearest Russian. You are always welcome here, you must know that."

"I still feel guilty," Vanya chuckles.

"That is your nature," Francis concedes. "Have you at least enjoyed this trip? I know you normally come when your daughter is here."

"Well I like spending time with the grandkids alone. I'm very much aware of how any time I can spend with them I should, because it's all precious." Deep blue eyes take him in. "What?" Vanya asks, feeling uncomfortable under that look.

"Sometimes I forget how much you've changed since Erzsi came into your life. How being a father is like you finally finding your place. Anya never stopped talking about you," Francis admits. "No day was complete without here telling me, Papa does this at home, or, Papa used to say. Oh," he sighs, "I miss those days."

"Hmm." As the sun goes low Vanya finally admits, "I'm afraid of her dying."

"You wouldn't be her father if you weren't."

"The only consolation is knowing she'll live on through her children."

Francis lays back, soaking in the last of the sun's ray. "And your memory."

"Hmm?"

"She'll live on in you, forever. Your love is eternal Ivan Braginski," Francis says. "Perhaps your love is the only eternal thing in the world."

The sun finally dips below the skyline, an orange-purple glow painting the sky. "Never thought about it like that."

"I figured," and his friend laughs, standing and going back inside.


End file.
